The Godwhale (S.F. Masterworks) (13 page)

Larry shrugged. ‘You’ve sent enough of the standard prayer stuff. Now try for an answer – any kind of an answer. We need fresh water.’

Trilobite pulsed silently.

Listener snatched off his earphones, scowled and rubbed his ears.

‘What is it?’ asked Opal, her eyes on the transparent dome. Sunlit waves sparkled hardly five feet above the ceiling.

‘Sounds like their transmitter exploded.’

She picked up an earphone and held it up several inches from her cheek. The pulses continued – audible clicks that tingled her hand. ‘No. It is still working. Sounds like a signal. Did their deity answer yet?’

‘No. Could they be calling the Hive patrols?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Opal. ‘They looked like pretty standard fugitives to me – all warbled and weak. Hunters have never used decoy techniques that I can remember.’

Listener nodded. ‘Then you trust them?’

Opal hesitated. ‘We have never trusted a machine before.’

‘Our domes are machines,’ reminded Listener.

‘That is different. We grew up with them. The Deep Cult warns us about machines that move. The Hive uses moving machines to hunt us. Any machine can carry the eyes of the Hive.’

They continued to listen.

Half the day passed before the answer came. The voice was not familiar. Its origin was the ecliptic. ‘Yes?’

‘Deity, we pray for a sign.’

‘Pray, then.’

‘I have two fugitives from the Hive. The water-dwellers have denied them refuge until we show them a sign to prove that we are your servants.’

‘They’ve contacted their deity,’ exclaimed Listener. He and Opal shared earphones.

‘What kind of sign?’ asked the voice.

‘Food,’ said Trilobite. ‘They want you to make the seas bountiful again. Bring back the fish and all it eats: plankton, seaweed, mussels . . .’

Larry patted the meck. ‘Good work,’ he whispered. ‘Keep it up.’

Trilobite continued earnestly, ‘Their people starve. They are good people – deserving of your bounty. Come live with us in the sea.’

‘I come.’

Trilobite and Big Har trembled with excitement.

‘My deity returns to the sea. She should be here in five or six days if her systems are all working. You will like her, I know. She is big and strong – and wise beyond your imagination. She will take us around the world . . .’

‘Hush. Here comes the Benthic,’ said Larry.

Big Har stood respectfully as the thick-necked female approached from the water. Her dripping body was smooth and muscular, with small breasts set wide apart. ‘Welcome.’ She smiled. ‘We heard your deity. This is wonderful! I hope you will stay with us and let us tend your wounds.’

‘We’ll need a little food and water,’ said Larry, speaking carefully so as not to frighten the simple savage. ‘We will move on as soon as we get our strength back. Don’t want to burden you.’

Opal eyed Big Har. ‘It’s no problem. I’m sure the Deep Cult will want an audience with you. That will take time. How are you called?’

‘Har.’

‘Well, Har. Pick up your little friend and I’ll show you how to dive down to our home under the sea.’

Har hesitated. The surf looked rough, cold, and salty. Their skin bots ached.

‘She is right,’ said Trilobite. ‘My distress call must have alerted half the mecks on this coast. We should find shelter quickly – before patrols come.’

Larry glanced at the little shovel-shape, puzzled. ‘You are joining us?’

‘I await my deity.’ New excitement was reflected in his telltale display. ‘The sea is where I belong.’

Larry puckered up his face and grasped Trilobite’s tail as they dived to the dome. The pressure pinched his sinuses. He crawled up on the raft, coughing and snorting. The Listener’s shaggy mane was the first thing he saw.

‘My name is Larry.’

Listener just stared silently at the truncated hemihuman. He had never seen a partial human still living. In the hostile environment of the sea, even minor amputations meant eventual death from starvation. There was no surplus food for charity. Big Har and Trilobite joined them. Opal searched the dome’s hot spot for utensils and began to check Har’s back. The older lesions were clean and deep – flask-shaped ulcers. She found several young, unopened abscesses with immature larvae. She cut into them, draining cloudy fluids and digging out the stubborn parasites. Har submitted to her ministrations. Larry backed away.

‘There’ll be new bots forming for a few days as new larvae arrive to mature. We’ll open them as soon as we see them. That way they won’t get so big and do so much damage.’ She turned to Larry, but he shooed her away. She offered him the set of sharpened tools – stone, wood and shell. ‘Try to get all the foreign material out,’ she said.

Larry grunted and brushed the tools aside. He hand-walked to Trilobite and hunkered down on the meck’s disc. As he brooded he noticed his reflection on the glistening dome wall – a lumpy, pale, fly-specked human. A wry grin crossed his face. He had seen a shovelful of manure that looked better. What a disgusting mess! Anaemic. His plasma proteins were only about half normal.

‘Why are you being so difficult?’ asked Har.

Larry didn’t know.

‘Let Opal take a look at your back – it’s worse than mine.’

Larry shrugged sheepishly and let Opal approach. She poured brine over his back and scrubbed, freshening the raw granulations. Serum oozed. He tolerated her cutting and probing as long as she worked on his back. Opening a deep neck sinus caused him pain. His face showed it. She hurried, trying to finish before his tolerance was exceeded. A scalp larva lay deep – next to bone. She probed gently, concerned at the size of the skull depression.

‘I think this one has eroded into bone,’ she said. ‘We got it, though. Try to rest now. I’ll find you a drink of water. Your mouth looks awfully dry. I’ll bet your tongue feels terrible.’

Larry pulled on his robe, saying, ‘Thanks.’

He dragged his tassel to the edge of the raft and waited. It had been a long time since any female had taken an interest in his body, and it made him feel uncomfortable. She could not possibly understand all his surgical orifices. She went to the side wall of the dome, where a network of ridges came together at a cup. Condensate dripped – fresh water. She offered Larry the cup. He drank deeply. After granular sewage and bitter tidal brine, it tasted delicious.

‘What keeps you alive?’ she asked. Her manner was brusque, but honest.

He shrugged.

‘Your deity?’ she asked.

‘I suppose,’ he said.

Listener loosened up finally. Any deity with that power would be welcomed by the Benthics. ‘There is fruit in my bin. Serve them, Opal.’ As they ate and drank, Opal questioned them about the Hive. Their years between the walls gave them an objective viewpoint. The Hive was clearly big and powerful, but it was not invincible.

‘They have come to search the beach,’ interrupted Listener, adjusting his headset. ‘A patrol just landed beside the sump. A Hunter is leaving their airship.’

Larry raised an eyebrow. ‘Airship?’

‘The Hive has means of flying its Hunters. Several of our people have seen them.’

Larry was amazed that the technology still existed. Tweenwall years showed nothing but system decay. ‘Can they find us here?’

‘I don’t think so. They have never come into the water even when they were pursuing . . . They are examining the dinghy. That row of skulls seems to interest them. I think they are collecting bones . . . They are getting back into their craft . . . They’re gone.’

Larry walked on his hands. He managed half a dozen steps before falling on his tassel. He checked his palms. The skin was intact.

Opal produced her waist tow rope and demonstrated how it was used to pull objects underwater. ‘First we ballast it to zero buoyancy. I tie the rope to my waist – so! Now if you hold on to the end I have my hands and feet free to swim.’

‘I don’t think I can hold my breath very long,’ said Larry. ‘Why can’t we stay here?’

Opal shook her head firmly. ‘This is our Halfway House. All of the families use it on their way to the surface. No one lives here except Listener.’

Har took a deep breath. Opal towed him off into the deeper shadows. Larry rubbed the wall and tried to watch, but the dome was not clear enough for good resolution. Opal returned alone. She tossed the rope.

‘Hang on. You’re next.’

‘Maybe I’d better let Trilobite tow me.’

She nodded and led them to an air-filled umbrella about thirty yards away. He poked his head up into the welcome air bubble. The view again was all greys and blacks. Stark, dull, barren. After several such stops they arrived at a small dome. The raft floated high.

‘The air bubble is not yet full size, but it will be by sleeptime. Your hot spot is over here. The fruit bin is empty. I’ll send someone with food in the morning.’

Har and Larry stretched out on the raft. Trilobite nosed around in the sand under the dome, coming up with an assortment of discarded tools and eating utensils. Opal left after she showed them how to set their wall cup for fresh water.

‘How deep are we?’ asked Har.

‘I don’t know for sure, but I could hold my breath about three times longer than on the surface. If the air mixture is the same as atmospheric, I’d guess we were down about ten fathoms, about three atmospheres of pressure.’

Har stared up at the ceiling. The surface of the Ocean was just a blue haze – a light source. He closed his eyes to nap.’

‘I think I will go up to the surface,’ said Trilobite, ‘and pray. I want to let my deity know how eager we are to see her.’

Larry nodded and watched the meck swim off. He went to the downstream end of the raft, lowered his torso into the water and relaxed his sphincters to empty visceral sacs. Then he checked his shoulders for new bots, bathed and napped. His dreams were nagging visions of growing renal calculi – sharp crystals stabbing into the soft kidney tissues. He awoke and drank three cups of fresh water before dozing off again.

Trilobite surfaced with a pain. The bubble of air in his disc threatened to burst his lingual membranes. It took him a long nanosecond to realize that the air at ten fathoms must be thicker and more compressed than on the surface. He wished his deity were available for sharing. Partial pressure tables would be helpful. Suddenly he understood why Benthics must go through Halfway on their trips to the surface. They must equalize in the shallows or suffer the pain of expanding gases. Without praying he dived back to the dome to warn his fugitives. But there was plenty of time. They slept. He called.

‘Always go through Halfway,’ said Larry. ‘That sounds like a sensible rule. I can recall something called “the bends” from the days of my youth. I wish I knew more, but I did my swimming in small freshwater lakes – maybe ten or twelve feet deep.’

‘The Benthics will teach us,’ said Har.

Opal appeared with a sack of roots and nuts – staple items for their bin. ‘Your skin is healing,’ she said. ‘The swelling and redness are less. It is one of the benefits of “the squeeze”. Soon your strength will return.’ She hovered over Har, bathing his wounds and feeding him.

‘You’d do well to cultivate her friendship,’ suggested Larry. ‘I think she means to have you for a mate.’

Har showed little interest.

‘A mate is much more secure than a disciple,’ continued the hemihuman, ‘especially if our deity remains nothing more than a voice. Trilobite tells me the Benthics are short on males – losing so many in the Gardens. Hive fugitives, such as we, usually die from exposure as soon as they hit the beach. The toothless skulls. You thrive. Opal is thrilled.’

Epithelium bridged cutaneous ulcers. Har practised short swims to nearby umbrellas.

‘Today you may visit my clan at Long Dome,’ invited a smiling Opal. ‘We make offerings to the Deep Cult. You can share this custom with us.’

They covered the two-mile swim in an hour, making frequent breathing pauses. Long Dome resembled a centipede, with multiple pillar legs anchored in the bedrock. Larry sensed the activity as Trilobite towed him closer. Rafts vibrated with noisy family units – mates and their children. Opal led Big Har out of the water. She glowed with pride. Hemihuman followed.

Har stooped slightly and Larry walked his duck-walk on his hands as Opal led them down the raft, introducing her people. Their names, garnered from the ancient murals, were as colourful as the present seas were barren. The Benthics had filled the niche of extinction and had taken their names: Barnacle, who once had clung to his mother, now stood straight and tall; the Crab boys, Hermit, Spider, and Moss; a female called Shrimp; another named Coral. Larry nodded to each one. The smiled back. Most were healthy, with leathery skin and thick arms and legs. An occasional family unit lacked its father. This limited its food supply, producing runted and hollow-eyed children. Sexually mature females were about twice as numerous as males – Garden attrition.

Listener awaited them at the deep end of the chain of rafts where Long Dome overlooked the abyss. Four large wicker baskets of fruit, weighted with stones, stood at the edge. Flowers decorated these baskets and the smaller portions of food on each raft. Listener motioned them down on to a place mat. Trilobite remained near the wall floating on top of the water.

The preliminary remarks sounded like a prayer of thanksgiving. At the word ‘offering’ all eyes went to the large baskets heavy with fruit.

‘I have spoken with the Deep Cult. They accept Trilobite’s deity
Rorqual
. She will be added to our Hall of the Gods. Each family will offer up a prayer to her each day until the prophecy comes to pass. Food will return to the sea.’

The words of Listener were repeated. Larry thought they rang a bit hollow in the mouths of those mothers whose children shrank from calorie-lack. When he saw the two Crab boys start to dump the offerings he tugged Listener’s robe.

‘Wait,’ he whispered. ‘Is it necessary to make such a large offering? Er . . . our god,
Rorqual
, demands only prayer for herself. She prefers we give our offerings to the needy – such as those hungry children . . .’ Larry pointed to the hollow-eyed runts.